


Ben "Sex God" Goldwasser

by Queen_Of_Antarctica



Category: Bandom, MGMT (Band)
Genre: Bestiality, M/M, Slow Burn, Vampire Weekend Is Bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 09:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14041248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_Of_Antarctica/pseuds/Queen_Of_Antarctica
Summary: Why did MGMT write "Electric Feel"?





	Ben "Sex God" Goldwasser

“This is legal, right, Ben?” the blindfolded Andrew asked, following Ben onto the Wesleyan grounds.

 

“Yup,” Ben said calmly, before shooting the two nearest security guards.

 

“Cool. Just checking,” Andrew said, trying to feel his way around the parking lot with his arms outstretched, “‘Cause those two bangs just now sounded oddly like gunshots. I mean, I’m like, super high, but I think I’d recognize the sound of gunshots barely ten feet away from me.”

 

“Just fireworks,” Ben dismissed. He turned smoothly back around and emptied the rest of his magazine into one of the twitching guards.

 

Andrew sighed, and reached up to gloomily feel at the blindfold. “It’s hot. Where are you taking me? Come on, I’m tired and I’m bored and like I said earlier, I am  _ ridiculously _ coked out.”

 

“Not much longer, VanWyngarden,” Ben whispered ominously, and grabbed him by the arm to lead him to the nearest dorm building. 

 

“Did you just call me  _ VanWyngarden _ , you fucking weirdo?” Andrew asked, bemused. No response.

 

Listless, faintly sunburned, and with no idea where he was being led, Andrew glumly turned his thoughts back to how weird Ben had been this week. 

 

First, Ben had recently taken to floating around in his side of the hotel room with his eyes rolled up in the back of his head, chanting something that sounded a lot like the exact lyrics to Kids translated into perfect Latin. It’d been distracting Andrew from his beauty sleep, but when he tried to throw some pillows at Floating Ben, the pillows would vaporize into ash and Ben would sleep-whisper “Soon it will all end for you, Andrew Wells VanWyngarden.” It was annoying as hell.

 

Then all the tour’s convenient sacrificial animals had gone missing‒— Andrew had placed an order for 23 goats, bulls, and doves for some pleasant cross-country company, but they’d all been steadily disappearing with screams of animal agony in the middle of the night since day one, and the hotel bills for “irreparable damage to the mattresses” and “unsettlingly deep pools of blood” and “oh, God, he's standing right behind me, isn’t he? Is this how I go out? Writing up a stupid hotel report while a demon advances on me with a knife? Please, I have a family. My name is Adam and I have a beautiful wife wait no God please no [a streak of blood covers the paper here]” were racking up some frankly unacceptable amounts of fines.

 

And then just  _ yesterday, _ Andrew had walked in on Ben opening the throat of a virgin woman into a chalice and muttering the Bible backwards under his breath. This kind of shit had never happened on the self-titled tour. Maybe they needed a longer break after LDA, Andrew reflected solemnly. Ben seemed to be getting too full of himself.  _ Gotta keep those keyboardists down, or they’ll never know their place,  _ he thought.

 

A metallic clang jerked him out of his thoughts.

 

Andrew shifted uncomfortably between his feet. “Ben, this is just a wild guess, but are you breaking open the doors to Wesleyan Dorm Hall #3 with a crowbar?”

 

“Shut up.” Ben pulled him unceremoniously into the building, and began to lead him down the stairs.

 

“Please tell me the surprise is that this is our hotel and not the newly broken-into Wesleyan Dorm Hall #3.” Andrew distantly wondered why he was being led somewhere isolated and soundproof. Probably a 219-day-early surprise birthday party or something. 

 

“Welcome to my twisted mind,” Andrew heard, before the blindfold was abruptly taken off to reveal a fully furnished sex dungeon. 

 

“...Where the fuck are we?” Andrew asked.

 

“Under Wesleyan Dorm Hall #3,” Ben said proudly. “You know, our old one? Good memories, huh?”

 

“This is not our hall, Benjamin,” Andrew said, very slowly, taking in the ritual chalk circles drawn in the center of the room and the faint scent of 23 goat, bull, and dove corpses. “This is a satanic sex dungeon.”

 

“Yeah, I built it here freshman year. Did you never wonder where I was disappearing to all those nights?”

 

“Not really, no, I had a social life.”

 

“Never mind. Look, the point is,” and here Ben drew a sacrificial knife out of his trenchcoat pocket, “you’re not leaving this room.”

 

Andrew blinked. “...Pardon?”

 

Without warning, Ben grabbed Andrew’s hand and carved a jagged slash across his palm. “Hey,  _ ow _ , what the fuck?” Andrew yelped, jumping away. Ben didn’t listen- he was staring intently at the beads of Andrew’s blood that had dripped to the floor, all of which were now sliding almost magnetically towards the ritual chalk marks in the center of the room in a decidedly unnatural way.

 

“I-I-I’ve got to go,” Andrew stammered, clutching his hand and inching towards the stairs. “This whole detour was really nice and all, Ben, but I think I’ll just head on back to that hotel now, yeah?”

 

“I’m afraid it’s far too late for that,” Ben said darkly, then snapped his fingers. The door slammed shut with a fairly demonic gust of wind.

 

“...Uh, Ben, is this because I didn’t let you put Dancing on the Beach on the setlist?” Andrew asked, nervously: “‘Cause we could put that back on, I… I guess. My fancy voice modulator for James can wait.”  _ Why aren’t there any climbing-outable windows in underground college sex dungeons? _ he silently bemoaned, eyes flitting over the bare walls. _ Am I seriously about to murdered by my own keyboardist? I mean, come on God, at least give me the dignity of a death at the hands of anyone but the fucking piano player. _

 

“That’s not my name,” Ben said softly, still kneeling by the ritual chalk marks and staring at the rapidly darkening drops of Andrew’s blood.

 

“What, you mean ‘Ben’? What are you talking about?”

 

“My name isn’t Ben Goldwasser. My true name is _ Benjamin Sexgodwasser. _ ”

 

Andrew looked at Ben, then at the door, then back at Ben. “...How much coke did I fucking take this morning?” he asked, running the uninjured hand through his hair.

 

“You’ll be the first to see, VanWyngarden,” Ben rasped in the burning language of a thousand hissing voices, as the ritual circles in the center of the room grew brighter and brighter, “But after this day, the entire world shall know the truth.” And with that, Ben tore off his trenchcoat.

 

“Oh,  _ Jesus Christ _ , you’ve gone insane,” Andrew yelped, reflexively shielding his eyes and wincing. “Benjamin Goldwasser, I’ve managed to somehow go fourteen years sharing a tour bus and dorm room with you without accidentally seeing your micropenis. Don’t break that streak now, man, I’m fucking begging you.”

 

“You will look, VanWyngarden,” Ben commanded in a deep, infernal voice. “You will face the truth.”

 

Andrew felt his hands lowering against his will, as if some unseen force were pushing them down.  _ What the fuck is happening, _ he thought wildly, before his face was forced down to see… an eel.

 

An eel protruding out of Ben’s crotch.

 

Silence.

 

“Ben, your, uh… your dick… I think you’ve got a little problem there,” Andrew whispered, feeling faint.

 

“You will address The Eel with respect,” Ben boomed. “And he's a big problem, not a little problem.”

 

“I have a lot of questions,” Andrew said in a very, very high-pitched voice.

 

“I’m sure you do.”

 

“Well, first of all, is this why you made us do that whole ‘inserting a live eel into a custom-built anus machine’ sequence in Flash Delirium?”

 

“That’s…” Ben blinked. “...Not what I thought your first question was going to be, but yeah, it was a sex thing. Specifically, my sex thing.”

 

“You told me the eel was a metaphor for Dick Cheney and the anus machine was a metaphor for the Middle East!” Andrew yelled indignantly.

 

“It was obviously a sex thing, Andrew!”

 

“You  _ lied  _ to me!”

 

“Yeah, and you ate it right up because you’re the most stupidly pretentious thing to come out of the 2010’s indie scene, and I’m factoring in The Decemberists.”

 

“I’m going to choose to ignore that! Second question, why after fourteen years are you just now showing me your… dick eel? Deel? Can I call it a deel?”

 

“His name is The Eel.”

 

The Eel looked like it would have glared daggers at Andrew, if it’d had, you know, eyebrows.

 

Something suddenly dawned on Andrew. 

 

“...Oh, oh no,” he whispered, all the color draining out of his face. “You’re telling me that every single painful, torturous fucking night since I wrote those three inane parodies of disgustingly synth-heavy pop songs, every single  _ soul-destroying _ night I’ve had to sing the words ‘Ooh, girl, shock me like an electric eel’ to a crowd of white late-20-somethings still pretending they’re in their halcyon high school days…. I’ve been singing about your dick?”

 

The Eel thrashed around a bit, as if in agreement.

 

Andrew sat down on the floor and put a hand over his mouth. “I’m going to be sick,” he muttered between his fingers. “I should have just stayed a farmer. I should have set fire to that stupid Columbia Records spokesperson and I should have never owned that praying mantis and I should have told Of Montreal to fuck off and then gone on alone to Utah to happily plant, I don’t know, daffodils for the rest of my miserable life.”

 

“The Eel can understand you, VanWyngarden,” Ben said in a deep, infernal voice, as his eyes began to glow with a sulfuric aura and the entire sex dungeon was bathed in grisly red light. The Eel was now spinning around, faster and faster, and sounded kind of like it were hissing Gregorian chants backwards over the Alien Days beat. “I would not advise angering him. He is eternal. He has been here long before you, and he will be here long after you are turned to dust and bonemeal. The maggots will squirm into the sockets of your rotted eyes, and The Eel will preside over it all.”

 

“Daffodils,” Andrew continued to mumble. “Daffodils would have been so damn nice.”

 

“The Eel is so much more than what you mortals refer to as a ‘dick’, little VanWynGarden,” Ben Sex Godwasser intoned, almost patronizingly. “Every time someone states the sacred words ‘ooh girl, shock me like an electric eel’, The Eel gets a little stronger. It’s been a decade of Electric Feel. A hundred million views on Youtube. A hundred eighty on Spotify. The Eel is just about full enough with all that accumulated power to eat the world.” A beat. “And, I mean, like, it’s still a dick and all, but that’s not really important.”

 

The eel squawked something that sounded a lot like Eel for “ _ You piss out of my mouth, Ben, I’d say that’s a pretty important detail”. _

 

“It’s all coming back to me now,” Andrew whispered in horror. “I’m the one who wanted to go to Utah and plant daffodils, but for some reason, you convinced me to send in the Electric Feel demo to the Columbia lady. You wanted to spread that phrase to the eager-to-repeat-mindless-lyrics masses of faux hipsters, didn’t you?” He paused, frowning. “Hang on, my vocals on that demo were total ass. How did we get signed again?”

 

“Yeah, uh, those demos were pretty terrible,” the Sex God said. “Like, beyond garbage. I literally had to call in favors from three different arch-demons to keep Columbia from trashing the _ Time to Pretend  _ EP on sight. And, oh, man, you do not want to know how many dicks I had to suck to keep Pitchfork from giving us a 1.6. We were going to be the next _ Travistan,  _ you know _. _ ”

 

“Did you really think we were that bad?” Andrew asked quietly.

 

“Oh, fuck, you have  _ no idea _ how long I’ve been waiting to say all this,” Ben said, his face glowing, exhilarated. “ _ Fourteen insufferable years  _ of having to pretend you were the biggest goddamn genius to grace the face of the earth. Let’s start with your most egregious offenses, VanWyngarden: even I have better stage presence than you and my job is to stand around in a suit and tap buttons on a keyboard; you wrote Kids about taking responsibility for the future or whatever and yet all you fucking care about is doing shrooms in the woods; and, dude, your definition of ‘deep’ is running into Apple stores and yelling ‘ _ Phones are bad, sheeple! _ ’ at the top of your lungs.” 

 

Andrew looked close to tears. 

 

Ben continued: “And oh, man, was I  _ seriously _ considering abandoning you at some points. There was this one time after the 14th disastrous Letterman show in a row when I called up ol’ Lucifer and was all like, ‘Hey, this VanWyngarden guy is… uh, he's pretty useless. The only thing he's got going for him is his face. Can’t you put me with the Grouplove guys or something? Empire of the Sun? I don’t know, fucking Vampire Weekend?’”

 

Andrew gasped in horror. “Alright, Ben, or whatever the fuck you are, I was already pretty ticked off, but comparing me to that thieving baby-faced bastard Ezra Koenig? That is the  _ last fucking straw, _ you discount Supernatural extra!” And with that, Andrew gave a war cry and launched himself directly at the levitating Ben Godwasser. 

 

“Watch it, foolish mortal,” Ben warned, throwing out a hand all Darth Vader style and immobilizing Andrew in mid-air by the neck. “You do realize I’m an incubus, right? We come with hellish powers and all that shit.” The floating Andrew didn’t respond, as he was a little preoccupied with choking to death. 

 

“This isn’t even my final form, VanWyngarden,” Ben chortled. “Watch as I turn on the charm.” The generic-white-indie-vocalist-guy’s-blood-soaked ritual chalk circles glowed red and black, and tainted light flooded into Ben’s body. 

 

“Behold, my ultimate form!” Ben announced.

 

(He still looked the exact same, because Ben Goldwasser is already a sex god.)

 

“Oh my God,” Andrew said, as soon as the pressure lessened on his throat, lusty realization dawning on his face. “Ben, I never noticed it before, but you really are a Sex God.” He reached up and clutched Ben’s Sex God face with both of his hands, looking deeply into his Sex God eyes, then began a rapid-fire litany of passion: “Ben, I want to have all your blue jello ball babies. I want to get a taste of your abyssal dark. Sue my spider, Benjamin Goldwasser. Sink my Welsh. Erode as gently as you can into my twilight. Dip your sword in my metaphor. Lay your dragon’s teeth in my shallow water. I’ll be your warped temptress. Your aeroplane sorceress. I’ll still chew your steaks, even if they’re tough. When my noose is tied, I could blow you just like that whistle. I’ll get your beach to quiver again. Uh, I’m running out of ideas, uh, glitter... glitter penis, I guess. Choke me like a statistician. Get your future reflections _ all over _ my face and my hands. In fact, I’d rather dissolve than have you ignore me. And, look, I’ll even swear off every single Playboy model from now on.”

 

Andrew paused. 

 

“Okay, actually, regarding that last part, maybe I won’t go that far, but you know what I mean.”

 

“How the hell did you manage to cram all of that into five seconds?” IncuBen asked, bewildered.

 

Andrew looked dazzled. “Your incubus form, it’s just too… too spectacular.” His eyes lit up. “Hey, you know what else? You could almost say it’s _ oracu _ -”

 

“If you finish that sentence, I will cut out your tongue with my pitchfork.”

 

“Sorry, Sex God,” Andrew said, batting his eyelashes. “I’m just so caught up in the moment. Is there anything, _ anything _ I could do for you?”

 

“Well, you know, there’s one thing you could help me out with,” IncuBen said in sultry tones. He flicked his hand, and Andrew floated back down to the ground until he was standing with both feet planted on solid sex dungeon floor, still staring adoringly up at the levitating Ben. “Come on, Andrew, say the words. The Eel only needs one more utterance of the sacred phrase to be able to consume this bitter earth in hellfire and brimstone once and for all. Electric Feel began with you, and it’s going to end with you too.”

 

“I said,” Andrew whispered, entranced, “ _ Ooh, girl. _ ”

 

“That’s it,” Ben said, hungrily, “Come on now. We’re so close.”

 

Eyes dreamy and unfocused, Andrew took a deep breath, and said: “Ooh girl, shock me like an electri _ haha dickhead I bet you never saw this coming _ ,” before snatching the gun from a surprised Ben’s holster and pointing it at his chest. “I won’t hesitate, bitch,” Andrew yelled triumphantly. “Don’t try any of that demonic shit, either, ‘cause IIIIII’ve got a pistol that’s aimed at your heart, and I  _ already  _ don’t love or think too much!”

 

Sex Godwasser spluttered. “B-b-but how did you resist my seduction?” he asked. “No mortal could have withstood the force of that raw power!”

 

“I whispered ‘no homo’ before I said all that bullshit, that’s how,” Andrew replied, grinning.

 

IncuBen gasped. “That’s the most powerful countercurse known to incubi,” he whispered, trembling. “How… how would a weak mortal like you know of those words?”

 

“Hey, I’m the one asking the questions now,” Andrew said indignantly. “First off is, can I end all of this by shooting off your dick?”

 

“...No.”

 

“That’s a yes, then. Cool. Second question, are there more of you?”

 

“I’ll never reveal Hell’s secrets to you,” the Sex God spat. 

 

Andrew pointedly aimed his pistol at the struggling eel.

 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Ben said hurriedly, “everyone in Imagine Dragons has sold their soul to us, not that you couldn’t have figured that out yourself already.” He took a moment to collect himself, and ironed on a charming smile. “Woah, hey, now, VanWyngarden, listen- the mortal world is pretty bad, and you’d know, right? Wouldn’t it be so nice to just... let go of everything? We’ve been watching you humans for the past two thousand years and we’ve all pretty much agreed that you’re going to nuke each other into oblivion by the end of the month, anyway. And what do humans even deserve, VanWyngarden? All this hate and anger in the world- wouldn’t it be nice if  _ it would just all go away?  _ And I mean, all you have to do is say those seven magic words.” 

 

“You know what, Ben?” Andrew said heroically, “No, it’s not. Sure, we might have some shitty things going on in this world right now, but as long as I don’t have to look at any of it, and as long as MGMT maintains enough bare-bones cultural relevancy to be able to book a dozen hot girls for every music video, and as long as I still get to spend every single day of my life hopped up on every kind of drug ever known to man, I like this world just fine!” Andrew cocked the pistol for dramatic effect.

 

Sex Godwasser quickly raised his hands in surrender. “Uh, heeyyyyyy, VanWyngarden, I didn’t really mean anything about that Vampire Weekend thing,” he said nervously. “Remember all the good times we’ve had together, buddy? All the LSD trips? All the cocaine off all those hookers? That time you somehow managed to nearly overdose on pot? Remember when you wanted me to, uh, sue your spider? Sink your Welsh?” His voice cracked. “I _ love  _ you, man, please don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to the Deel.” The eel nodded enthusiastically.

 

“Sorry, Ben,” Andrew said, steeling himself, “but you know how it is. Love is only in your mind, and not your heart.  _ My _ sexy mind belongs to only one person out there, and her name is  _ my fucking surfboard _ . I don’t need you and your eel to come between us.” 

 

“Andrew, please,” Ben whispered, the sulfuric light draining from his eyes. “If I die in the mortal realm, I die back in hell, too. Don’t do this to me. Don’t make me go to heaven. Lou Reed is up there and he's going to laugh at me again. I cried like a baby when he laughed at us on Earth that one time in 2009, imagine the vicious mockery I’m going to have to endure for eternity.” His slowly dimming eyes were pleading.

 

“It’s over. I’m sorry it had to come to this, but I can’t let you and your Electric Eel leave this room.” Andrew sighed, and finally said, “Oh, and Ben, by the way? Just for old times’ sake? I always fucking  _ hated  _ playing Dancing on the Beach.” And without hesitation, he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

 

The room exploded in a powerful blast of red light, and Andrew was immediately launched through the wall. He fell with a whump onto the dorm lawn, along with various pieces of viscera and rubble and what. A pulverized shower of some vaguely sexy demon chunks and vaguely eel-like meat chunks followed immediately afterwards.

 

When the dust had cleared, he hesitantly unshielded his face, and stood over the fresh rubble of the dorm hall.  _ My ears are ringing, _ he thought, delirious.  _ I think that’s bad for you. _

 

Andrew staggered over to the biggest piece of vaguely sexy gore he could find, and fell to his knees next to it. “Ben, I’m sorry I had to do this to you,” he gasped. “I know you might’ve been a perverse sex demon for the past fourteen years we’ve known each other, but you were still my friend, goddammit.” He paused to look tearfully up into the heavens, where Lou Reed was probably already sharpening his knives. “I’ll never forget what you meant to me. I’ll never forget the music we made together. I’ll never- wait, hold up,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Holy shit, I just realized I now have an actual excuse to never play Electric Feel ever again.”

 

Andrew VanWyngarden instantly keeled over in pure joy.

**Author's Note:**

> i spent a little too long on writing this


End file.
